


A Good Man Is Hard To Find

by Swing Set in December (swing_set13)



Category: Captain America (2011), Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swing_set13/pseuds/Swing%20Set%20in%20December
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long dead soldier looks out from the frame. No one remembers his war, no one remembers his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Man Is Hard To Find

**ARCTIC CIRCLE 2012**

The excavation team drops the standard issue glow sticks, lighting the hull of the frozen derelict aircraft. The BEACON team leader propels down into the preserved chamber with trepidation. The metal groans at the added weight, ice cracking at the heat of his lantern. The steady beam from the lantern shins into the aircraft, light bouncing off the metal paneling. He pauses when his light catches on a familiar emblem, covered in ice. He drops his lantern in shock.

“Lieutenant! What is it?” calls down the major from above the opening they cut into the sheet metal.

“Impossible,” the lieutenant murmurs, the major barely catches it on his comm. “Maj, give me a line to the Colonel.”

“It’s three a.m., soldier,” replies the major from above. The lieutenant reverently brushes away more ice, revealing the iconic shield.

“I don’t care what time it is. This one’s waited long enough.”

They found Captain America.

***

**NEW YORK 1943**

Scott rubs his arms against the cold, willing his nerves to calm down. He’s down to his skivvies and he’s next up. It has to work this time. Fifth times the charm.

“McCall,” calls the 4F doctor without preamble, opening his file. “What did your father die of?”

Scott parrots the same words he’s been saying at every enlistment station. It doesn’t get any easier. “Mustard gas. He was in the hundred and seventh infantry. I was hoping I could be assigned-“

“Your mother?” the doctor cuts him off.

“She was a nurse in a TB ward. Got hit, couldn’t shake it,” he says, steadily this time around. His fingers clench into his palms thinking of her bright smile.

The doctor merely flicks through his file with a dry look.

“Sorry, son,” he says as he stamps out any chance Scott has to enter the army.

“Look, just give me a chance-” begs Scott.

“You’ll be ineligible on your asthma alone,” replies the doctor, already waving the next guy up. Scott grabs his arm.

“Is there anything I can do?” he pleads.

“You’re doing it. I’m saving your life,” declares the doctor before shaking him off and has Scott ushered out by a nurse.

***

It’s not like he goes looking for a fight. The fights find him. Grabbing the garbage lid helped before it was torn away by the loud mouth jerk from the theater. He’s spitting out blood and stealing himself for the next blow when it’s stopped by a familiar voice. Stiles is standing at the end of the alleyway, in full uniform.

“How about you pick on someone your own size, pal,” says Stiles before laying a right hook on Scott’s attacker sending him stumbling into the trashcans. Stiles is already strong arming him up and sends him out of the alleyway with another hit.

“I had him on the ropes,” glares Scott, spitting out more blood from his mouth as he watches the bully run away.

“Sure, ya did. You totally softened him up for me,” agrees Stiles amiably, helping Scott up. “I’m not even going to mention your fetish for getting your ass kicked. My lips are sealed.”

Scott tries to muster up a glare at his best friend but just huffs out a watery laugh.

“Hey, what’s this?” asks Stiles, picking up a crumpled paper from the ground, flattening it out. Scott makes a grab for it but Stiles has always been faster. Stiles looks at Scott’s enlistment form with judgmental eyes.

“How many times is this?” demands Stiles, his eyes hardening. “Ah, you’re from Paramus now. You know it’s illegal to lie on your enlistment form. And seriously, Jersey? At least have some taste. I hear Boston is beautiful in the fall.”

Scott grabs at the paper and Stiles lets him have it. He chooses to ignore the argument he could be having with his best friend. It’s pointless. Stiles just cares too much. But Scott isn’t fragile. He can take the theater more than any man. “So did you get your orders?”

Stiles brushes at his uniform jacket and preens a little. “The one-o-seventh. Sergeant Stilinski. Shipping for England first thing tomorrow.”

“I should be going,” Scott mutters and Stiles sighs.

“There’s plenty of work you can do here. Important work. Help my dad, they lost a lot of men from the force-“

“I’m not gonna sit at a desk, Stiles,” says Scott. “Stiles, come on. There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That’s what you don’t understand, this isn’t about me-“

“I know,” says Stiles, softly. “But enough of this melancholy talk. Seriously, Scott, I am getting a heavy heart. It’s my last night. I ship out tomorrow. Gotta get you cleaned up. I hear the ladies like a man in uniform. It could be my lucky night.”

Scott rolls his eyes at his friend’s waggling eyebrows.

“Why? Where are we going?” asks Scott.

Stiles gleefully pulls out a crumpled flyer from his pocket. “The future, my friend. The future.”

Scott opens it to see an ad for the World Exposition, Hale Industries is headlining. 

***

**NEW YORK 2012**

Scott groans. His eyes fluttering open to the pale sunlight of from the looks of it, is a hospital room. There's a Dodgers' game playing in the background on the radio by his bedside. His bones are stiff and achy. But the ache is fading with every waking breath. 

"Captain McCall," greets a smiling nurse, her lips a bright cherry red. Like the apples Stiles used to go on about eating when they got back home.

 _Stiles_. His heart lurches and he shakily stands. "Where am I?"

"You're in a recovery room in New York City," she answers with a smile. Scott takes in the room again, he clutches his knuckles tightly. His face hardening. The lower murmur of the game sending his heart hammering. 

"Where am I really?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The game, it's from May 1941. I know, 'cause I was there. Me and my best bud caught a fly ball, so I'll ask again. _Where. Am. I?_ "

"Captain McCall-" she begins hesitantly.

"Who are you?"

The hospital room's door opens to men in not unfamiliar Hydra black. It all comes rushing back to him as he barrels through them. The wall coming apart like crepe paper. The outside is a facsimile of any movie set he's been on. It's all fake. All of it. 

"Captain McCall! Wait!"

But his feet are set to run.


End file.
